


Gentry

by Neffectual



Series: Fa(e)ted To Be [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Almost an arranged marriage, Fae & Fairies, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Faerie ring, Genderfluid Characters, Humour, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier is magic, M/M, Sassy Geralt, big white stags as plot devices, faerie bride, for some reason witchers aren't anti-fae, jaskier's mum wants him to come visit, mentions of Ciri, mentions of Lambert, none of the fae are bound to gender norms or rules, sort of suggestions of mpreg but like I said gender isn't really a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:40:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23919160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: The first time Geralt makes an offhand comment about the gentry, Jaskier flinches a little, but tries not to otherwise react. They’re not close enough to a mound that it will be an issue, Geralt’s not the sort to summon the fae, but it still sends a spike of panic through him, and he wards the campsite harder than usual after Geralt goes to sleep, and sits up through the night, waiting for the dawn, when he can take down the wards and spend half an hour in the stream, scrubbing the scent of magic from his skin.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Fa(e)ted To Be [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754062
Comments: 39
Kudos: 1260
Collections: Fave Stories of Queixo





	Gentry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thirteendaze (Thirteenthesiac)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thirteenthesiac/gifts).



> The wife and I talked about fae!Jaskier a bit, and so I wrote this. A few days early for their birthday, but still - with my love. I'd give you a thousand years.

The first time Geralt makes an offhand comment about the gentry, Jaskier flinches a little, but tries not to otherwise react. They’re not close enough to a mound that it will be an issue, Geralt’s not the sort to summon the fae, but it still sends a spike of panic through him, and he wards the campsite harder than usual after Geralt goes to sleep, and sits up through the night, waiting for the dawn, when he can take down the wards and spend half an hour in the stream, scrubbing the scent of magic from his skin.

He’s fortunate, he supposes, to be human enough that he doesn’t need a glamour, something that Geralt would spot in a second. If he’s not actively working magic, Geralt’s medallion doesn’t glow or shudder, doesn't warn the Witcher of his nearness. At first, he figured maybe it was made of iron, that the protection it granted would mean no Witcher could be bespelled due to the iron content, but he’s touched it enough times without a burn to know that, whatever it’s made of, it isn’t pure iron.

The next few times Geralt makes a comment about local nobility, Jaskier laughs a little, believing - despite the evidence of their acquaintance that Geralt has all the sense of humour of a mule - that he’s making a joke. That he, too, can feel how close the court is, how they’ll need to be careful if they want to hunt in those woods, because their quarry might not be entirely animal. But when he suggests they camp, rather than walk the next two scant miles to the town they’re headed to, Jaskier’s smile dims. 

It turns out that, while Witchers can sense most anything unnatural, they’re a little tone deaf when it comes to the fae. When they get too close to a mound, Jaskier can hear the wrongness in the world, like a familiar song played in the wrong time signature, words jumbling out of meaning as their emphasis is stolen. Geralt may as well have iron in his ears for all he can hear, for all he knows of when they’re too close to the edges of the halls of Jaskier’s kin. It makes the bard wonder just how many Witchers have been lost to the fae, and just as quickly decide he doesn’t want to know. 

Instead of telling Geralt, which would be safer for both of them, Jaskier is selfish. It’s in his nature, he thinks, trying to pretend he doesn’t hate that part of himself, to keep what is his and hoard it jealously. So he worms his way closer and closer, until he’s in the Witcher’s bed, until there are strong arms around him, until there’s a near-permanent bruise on his throat where Geralt likes to mark him as he comes inside him. Jaskier smells of Witcher now, can scent it on him, and it blends so well with the scent of his own magic, wildflowers and golden sunlight, that he no longer has to scrub the magic off him. Instead, he allows himself to cast small cantrips and wards, to favour parts of Geralt’s armour so they will not break, so his sword will never betray him in battle. He lets time pass, Geralt’s hand in the small of his back, and tries not to think of home.

It can’t last forever. One day, they settle in a town, and Geralt heads off to find a contract, but when he comes back, he smells of honeysuckle and pine, and Jaskier wants to rip off his armour and find where the other faerie touched him - and it’s been a long time since he’s thought of them as the  _ other _ fae. He wrinkles his nose in entirely real distaste as Geralt sits down, and meets his eyes with an easy smile.

Jaskier thinks he’s going to be sick, watching Geralt smile, back to a door, relaxed and easy, not even aware that there’s a cutpurse sneaking up behind him. This isn’t his Witcher, this isn’t Geralt, and true, he doesn’t have any true claim on the man, but they’ve travelled together for over a decade, he’s worked on this friendship, and he’s not about to let someone else bespell the one honest friend he’s ever had.

“What’s the job?” he asks, trying to bely his fear and keep his voice light. “Anything good?”

“Oh yes,” Geralt says, the smile practically beatific, and Jaskier would give anything for one of Geralt’s trademark ‘hmm’s in place of this easy and open communication. “We’re to hunt the white hind at midnight.”

Jaskier grits his teeth, can feel the colour drain out of him, because there’s only one person who would be so fucking stupid as to bespell a Witcher to hunt a magical beast that does no one any harm, and this is all his fault. If he’d only gone to the faerie rings at the changing of the seasons, but… well, he’s always been with Geralt at those times, needing the grounding feel of his Witcher inside him, above him, holding him steady so his edges can’t blur, so he can’t be taken back to the Sidhe. So he can pretend to be human, just a little longer.

“Oh,” he manages, heart in his throat. “Well, I’d best come with you for that.”

“Of course,” Geralt says, the easiest he’s ever agreed to take Jaskier anywhere that wasn’t to bed, and tangles their feet together like there’s nothing to be afraid of. Jaskier can’t meet his eyes, knowing that the gold there won’t be entirely Geralt’s own brand of unnatural.

The woods aren’t dark, when they venture out, the full moon round and high and casting everything into shades of grey that would be a problem if Jaskier’s eyes weren’t attuned to darkness. Geralt isn’t even in his armour, and has a small knife, rather than his swords - unprotected, holding no iron, and Jaskier has never wished so hard to be able to handle that cursed metal. He doesn’t even bother to fake tripping over a few roots, like he usually would, because Geralt’s not really there. He’s not even tracking the hind, just walking in the direction the spell is coming from, and Jaskier is so angry that his Witcher has fallen under this spell, so furious that he didn’t think to ward Geralt from the magic of other fae. He’d just figured they wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to bind a Witcher. He should have known better.

When they spot the hind, Geralt starts off at a clumsy run. Jaskier has never heard him make so much noise when running, and again, he’s angry with everything from the sky to the sea, especially himself. He really, truly didn’t think that anyone would push things this far. But that’s the fae for you. He stalks after Geralt, easy to track with the amount of brush he’s crashing through, muttering dark things about what he’s going to do to anyone who upsets his Witcher.

When he finds Geralt, he’s in a clearing, kneeling, eyes down, and it’s such a vulnerable position that Jaskier wants to leap on him, cover his body, keep him safe. He walks to Geralt’s side, folds his arms, and stares at the figure shining with light in front of them.

“Hello, mother,” he says, tone sullen and childish. “Take your damn spell off my Witcher now.”

“It’s good to see you too, Buttercup,” she says, still glowing, voice ethereal and full of the whispering sound of the wind.

“And you can cut the theatrics, I’m not impressed,” Jaskier snaps, before casting a worried look at Geralt. “Look, he’s not supposed to be bespelled, it’s not supposed to work on him, I don’t know what damage you’re doing, so just - “

His mother sighs, and they’re in the knowe, she’s sitting on her throne, and Jaskier’s heart is in his mouth. This isn’t what he meant, this isn’t what he wanted, he needs to get out of there, needs to get Geralt out of there.

“Happy?” his mother asks, and he looks at her, eyes wild with horror. “You can stay here now, with your lover, and won’t need to skirt the lines of our lands so often.”

“Take the fucking spell off him, right now,” Jaskier snarls, teeth suddenly a little less human, eyes a little too blue, because being in a mound, being this close to faerie, brings out all the little parts of himself that he doesn’t even need to glamour when he’s above ground. “Right fucking now, mother.”

“Ugh, you’ve never been any fun,” his mother says, and waves a hand. Instantly, Jaskier can feel Geralt’s body stiffen with tension as he becomes alert again, and doesn’t know where he is. “Witcher, it’s high time we met, you’ve been marking my son for too many years not to make it official.”

Geralt looks up at her, confused, then turns his head to Jaskier.

“Don’t do this,” Jaskier warns, not looking at Geralt, because he doesn’t want him to see the teeth and the eyes and the way his skin glitters. “Do not make me a faerie bride, mother, I will not tie him to me.”

“He is already tied to you, you stupid child,” his mother hisses, and Jaskier can see the Unseelie in her, remembers that she’s the product of both courts, and so is he. It’s just he’s more human that he is either Seelie or Unseelie. “He’s been tupping you for too long for a human, a child of the Queen.” 

Jaskier’s never had to think of his mother as ‘the Queen’ before, never had to consider that here, in the knowe, her word is law, and she could make them wed here, in the darkness. He doesn’t like the realisation.

Geralt rises from his knees, casts a look at Jaskier that says they’ll be having words later about ‘for a human’, and then looks to his mother.

“If you’re expecting a ‘well met, proud Titania’,” he says, with a slow and deliberate tone, “you should adjust your expectations.”

Jaskier watches his mother’s mouth become a thin line.

“So you knew what he was?” she asks, the words bitter and dark. “You knew, and chose to keep him?”

“I didn’t know until I saw you,” Geralt says, still as calm as could be. “Now, I know. And we’ll have our discussion about that. But I’m not just a human.”

“A monster slayer,” the Queen hisses, teeth impossibly sharp. “Yes, I know all too well how you would hunt our kind, if my boy didn’t keep you off our lands.”

Another pointed look from Geralt to Jaskier, who does his best to look apologetic.

“A long-lived monster slayer,” the Witcher says, and the words could have been made out of stone for how they drop into the conversation. “I can give him several hundred years.”

Jaskier ignores how his heart leaps at that, how he wants it to be true, how he wants to reach out and touch Geralt - but he doesn’t dare. Here, in the knowe, just one touch could be a wedding, and he will not tie Geralt to him in this way.

“And he will not visit me, then, for several hundred years,” the Queen says, voice softer now, teeth becoming blunter and more human, eyes more natural. “He does not trust our people with you.”

Geralt looks around the throne room, noting the guards at the doors, the gallery where the nobles sit, the window that looks out onto faerie, in all its glimmer and glitters of colour.

“Well, you have rather proved his point,” he says, with a shrug. “Might not have been the best way to go about things.”

Jaskier snorts a laugh, which doesn’t make his mother look any happier, then schools his face once more.

“If I visit, will you give me your word you won’t bespell him again?” he asks, gently. “I can come to you on most holidays - “

“All of them,” his mother counters, instantly.

“Midinvaerne is… complicated,” Jaskier manages, hesitantly. “We’ll be at the Kaer - there's no circles nearby, not even stone ones, and no castle of Witchers is going to let me open one within their walls. With good reason.”

“Yeah, the last thing we need is the fae weaponising Lambert.” Geralt says, deadpan, and Jaskier giggles. “We can visit at Imbaelk, though. Selfishly, I’d prefer to keep him with me for Belleteyn, for the season of my birth.”

“All others?” Jaskier’s mother asks, quietly, and Jaskier can see how much it’s hurt her, to not have him visit, to be able to feel him close to fae lands but never close enough to touch. He feels guilty, even as he knows he was only doing what he thought necessary.

“All others,” Jaskier says, softly. “All others, and you never bespell him again.”

“So long as he makes an honest man out of you within the next century,” his mother counters, and Jaskier can feel the flush of embarrassment rise in his cheeks - but when he looks at Geralt, his Witcher is smiling, that small, pleased smile that he turns only on Jaskier and Roach.

“I give you my word,” Geralt says, sweeping into a low, courtly bow that makes Jaskier’s knees go a little weak. “If he wishes it, then within the next hundred years, we will be wed.”

“Agreed,” the Queen says, and there’s the scent of magic, tying the three of them to their vows as Geralt straightens up. “And what of grandchildren?”

Jaskier can feel his face burning at this point.

“Mother,” he whines, “Geralt can’t, and I won’t. He doesn’t want to….”

“See you fat with child?” his mother asks, deliberately embarrassing him more. “No, I suppose not, although he may change his mind. It’s not like we can’t undo a little mutation of his balls.”

“Please don’t talk about my lover’s balls, mother,” Jaskier tries, not daring to look at Geralt.

“I have a child,” the Witcher says, and Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “A child of surprise, a princess, in Cintra.”

“She has magic too,” the Queen states, not asking. “Very well. When you take her on as yours, you will bring her with you for visits, and we shall teach her what we can of our magic. Buttercup never did take to his studies well.”

Geralt tosses a fond look at Jaskier, before turning his attention back to the Queen.

“His music has value to me,” he says, and Jaskier almost swoons with it, a genuine compliment. “And his words have got us out of trouble more times than I can count. And many more I don’t know about, I’m sure.”

“Very well,” the Queen says, beckoning Jaskier close. He goes, and lets her fold him into an embrace, kissing the top of his head and stroking his hair. “My beautiful Buttercup, my dear, sweet boy - I expect to see you for Saoine, before the frosts come. And you may bring your monster slayer, too. I give you my word that should anyone try to trap him, I shall remind them of their place.” With that, she lets go, and Jaskier misses her arms around him, misses being home, misses knowing where he comes from.

“You are most generous,” Geralt says, careful not to thank, oh, the things Jaskier is going to do to him once they get out of here, the way he’s going to ride his lover and pull his hair and praise him for knowing just what to do when facing down the Queen of the Faeries. “But I’m afraid we must be getting back.”

There’s no movement, not from them, but the world shifts, and it’s Geralt and Jaskier and a large white stag in the clearing. Geralt bows, and the stag echoes the motion, before it bounds away and is gone, leaving the witcher and the fae alone. Jaskier can feel tears on his cheeks.

“I know why you didn’t tell me at first,” Geralt says, voice calm and gentle, like he’s afraid of spooking Jaskier into following his mother and running. “But I hope you did intend to tell me at some point.”

“At some point,” Jaskier agrees, though he can’t meet Geralt’s eyes. “I didn’t know if you even knew of the fae, you don’t carry iron, none of you do - “

“We know that manners are worth more than iron,” Geralt murmurs, closer now, so Jaskier can feel his breath. “Did you think that I would hurt you?”

“No!” Jaskier says, startled into staring directly into Geralt’s eyes, the gold lancing through him. “No, never, I just - I thought you would not forgive my lies. I thought you would leave.”

“Not for a thousand years or a mountain of gold,” Geralt murmurs, and then cups Jaskier’s chin, pulling him into a kiss.

They’ll need to have a discussion, Jaskier knows, and this isn’t the last he’ll hear about his untruths, but in the clearing, the faerie ring beneath them as he kisses his Witcher, he’s certain they’ll be fine.

In the morning, they stagger back to the inn, grass stains on their clothes, a chain of buttercups woven into Geralt’s hair, and Jaskier whistling a merry tune. If anyone notices the fresh bruise on Jaskier’s neck - or the matching one on Geralt’s - then they say nothing.

“ - a roll in the hay with the gentry - “ Jaskier sings, a snatch of lyrics before Geralt gives him a sharp look. “Alright, alright, no song about how we were captured by the fae and you had to fuck me on a dais to free us.”

“That’s not how it happened,” Geralt says, an old argument, and one that always makes him smile.

“Well, there’s always Saoine,” Jaskier answers, with a grin, then yelps as Geralt smacks him on the arse, just hard enough to sting. “You brute!”

“Didn’t mind it last night,” Geralt leers, and jumps as something pinches his nipple, despite both of Jaskier’s hands being within his sight. “Oh, playing dirty now, are we?”

“Just how you like it,” Jaskier counters, and the two of them head through the town, pawing at each other and bickering good-naturedly as they go.

In the heart of the forest, the morning dew glistens off a faerie ring of slightly crushed buttercups, with a few long white hairs wrapped around their stems, a meaning unknowable to all but its creators. And they were busy.


End file.
